The Masked Men

By M. Balasubramaniam

Many times, in my life

surrounding people, they observe.

"You've changed.", they say.

Have I really?

Spent days in deep thought.

Is 'Change' really the term to use?

Because, at any point I look back,

I've been the same old.

Interactions change, people too.

When two worlds meet, they know.

I am not a changing person.

Just an empty shell with multiple masks.

People think that I mask my feelings.

They don't know.

Feelings are my masks.

Each and every action, a theatrical art.

"Why the mask?", you ask.

The world around me is vibrant.

I feel a need to protect them,

from the all-sucking emptiness of my soul. 

You may see me laugh, see me cry,

show an array of emotions.

But, at the day's end, when all is settled,

I'm just a detached shell.

If emotions are what make you human,

I'm a lifeless stone among beautiful sculptures.

You can tease me with hopes of a life,

I will choose to look the other way.

Why would a dead corpse attract life?

Why do I have people around me?

Can't they smell my rottenness?

Or is it masked by my selfish illusion?

I don't crave life 

yet somehow, I am attracted to it.

However hard I try, I cannot keep myself away.

A black hole of ruin moving through the cosmos.

So the masks that separate the void,

who do they protect?

The world, from my venomous views

or me, from my own crushing perspective of the world?

Does a void deserve to live?

To feel love and nurture life?

To breathe and flow in the nature's current,

while remaining unchanging and lifeless?

I don't think I have loved once,

felt a spark or even had a heart.

Yet, I crave something that humans feel 

without knowing what a feeling is.

Devoid of base emotions,

of primal connections,

I watch the world run, 

through my unchanging granite eyes.

As a man of many masks,

I do not stay true.

My personality coloured by the surroundings, 

The light coming from the burning black edges.

Maybe there are others.

A cult of masked men.

A group of shifting faces and black hole souls

that are fated to stay away and unknown.

A masked man I shall stay,

till my force perishes and body withers away 

Mingling to the outer eye

but truly alone in every way.

By M. Balasubramaniam